


Wherever You Go

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [11]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3rd May, 1707: Following the Acts of Union, England's household gains another member.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherever You Go

**3rd May, 1707; Buckinghamshire, England**  
  
  
On the surface, England receiving Scotland far away from prying eyes at his Buckinghamshire estate, rather than London, seemed like kindness. Scotland, however, was not predisposed to think well of his brother's intentions at the best of times, and suspected it more likely that England wanted to chance to crow about Scotland's ignominy in private before they were both swept up into the maelstrom of social and political engagements that no doubt awaited them in England's capital.  
  
This assumption seemed to be borne out by the slight arrogant curl to England's lips which belied his otherwise neutral expression when he greeted Scotland in the house's entranceway, and the bow which was just a little too deep to be anything other than mocking.  
  
"Scotland." The way England drew the name out a little too long sounded nothing but disdainful, too, and the final consonant snapped harsh and final like a gunshot, leaving his lips pulled back from his teeth in something which bore only superficial resemblance to a smile. "I hope your journey was uneventful."  
  
"England," Scotland returned with a nod, and then found he could not trust himself to say anything more in that moment, not with his normal ill-favour towards his brother strengthened by the resentment of his people: his blood stirred by their fury, fizzing and popping with riots and protests, and a cold, hard knot of betrayal sitting heavy in his chest.  
  
England's gaze travelled slowly from Scotland's face to his feet and back again, one eyebrow ploughing deep furrows into his forehead as he raised it. "You will want to change before dinner," he said, and there was no hint of suggestion to the words. In fact, it sounded more like an order.  
  
"No," Scotland said, hoping that England would read the negation as the obstinacy he wished it was. In truth, the clothes Scotland was wearing were the finest he owned, worn breeches and thrice-darned stockings included. It had been a long while since he could justify to himself the expense of replacing anything other than those items of his wardrobe which were completely beyond repair.  
  
England, on the other hand, was dressed in what Scotland assumed was close enough to his court finery as made no odds: the cuffs of his long coat swarming with buttons and embroidery, and his heavy wig spilling loose curls down his back. It seemed more than a little ostentatious for dining with family, but Scotland presumed it was a show for his benefit; a reminder where none was needed of what exactly had brought Scotland so low as to submit to entering the union he'd fought so hard against for so long.  
  
England's brief but poorly-concealed scowl suggested that he was indeed irritated at Scotland's refusal, but the subsequent whispered command to the servant behind him that his brother must be fitted for new clothing at the earliest possible opportunity put paid to the possibility that he had been deceived in any way. Scotland schooled his own expression to indifference, but inwardly promised himself that he would not wear anything that his brother provided him with, and if that meant going about in rags until he had funds enough to outfit himself again, then so be it. England could, and no doubt would, rant and rave and scream himself hoarse about the disgrace to this new kingdom of theirs, but Scotland would not accept his charity – which was far too close to _pity_ for comfort – whilst he still had breath in his body.

 

* * *

  
  
Wales’ welcome was much warmer than England's, almost effusive, and he inquired after Scotland's health and well-being so many times that Scotland began to wonder if he was actually unable to say anything else.  
  
Scotland studied him across the dining table as they waited for their meal to be served because it had been many years since they had last spent sufficient time in each others' company to allow such close scrutiny.  
  
Wales' dress was almost as fine as England's own, but he did not seem as comfortable in it as their brother was. He was continuously straightening the fall of his coat only to crumple it up again the next time he shifted in his seat, tugging at his cravat, and smoothing his hands over the pale material of his breeches. His face was still as soft and open as it had been since he was a child, although there was a degree of tension around his eyes, a slight puckering of the skin between his brows, which lent him an a certain air of exhaustion.  
  
His features betrayed nothing more than that slight hint and no other emotion besides, however. Neither did his words, which were few; nothing more than murmured agreements whenever the pauses in England's self-congratulatory speech expounding on his country's greatness and the prosperity the union was sure to bring to Scotland's 'poor, beleaguered people' grew long enough that they seem to beg for an interjection of some kind.  
  
Scotland's own sword and dagger had been taken from him before he began his journey, and the knife beside his plate was blunted at the end, but he hefted the sharp, two-tined fork in one hand and thought about thrusting it into the hollow of England's throat just to shut him up. He would not, he _could not_ , but it was a somewhat satisfying way of passing the time, nevertheless.  
  
This almost-monologue was only interrupted by the arrival of dinner: platter after platter of carved meats, roasted fowls and fish, and deep dishes of white soup and broth that filled the table from end to end, side to side. It was more food than Scotland had seen together in one place for many a year, and his stomach growled in anticipation, voicing the hunger that he had not allowed himself to feel for so long; the hunger that had made a pit of his belly, loosened his skin and eaten away at his strength.  
  
He wished he could refuse the spread in front of him, turn up his nose, push it aside and touch that deep core of anger that seethed at England flaunting his wealth for no other reason Scotland can see than to wound him. But his mouth had already begun to water, hands trembling with an urgency he had thought long past. Not a scrap of food had passed his lips that could not feasibly go instead to his people for months, and although he didn't need it now any more than he did then, he _wanted_ it – the tastes, the textures, the sleepy contentment of satiation – because his body may not be human, but it was trained to feel human desires all the same, as all of their kind's were.  
  
England's smile became indulgent as he watched Scotland pile his plate high, probably imagining that, in this at least, he had won. That Scotland's tractability would be bought in time, in just the same way as his parliament's had been bought: by enough coin. England nibbled at his own food distractedly with all the fastidiousness of the well-fed, eschewing all but the tenderest cuts of meat and softest vegetables. Even that kept him sufficiently occupied that he remained silent until the picked-over remains of the first course were removed to make way for the second.  
  
He leant back in chair then, one hand splayed over his stomach, the other clutching a glass of wine filled almost to overflowing – he'd laughed when Scotland refused a glass himself, and called out loudly for a servant to bring 'ale for his brother', clearly amused by what he no doubt assumed was Scotland's unrefined palate – and began to talk again, about his colonies this time. Mostly wee America, whom Scotland already knew he had a particular fondness for.  
  
It was not an unusual topic of conversation for him, but it still felt as though it was just another sharp twist of the knife all the same. After all, had it not been England's colonies that were the final nail in the coffin of Scotland's freedom? That stranglehold of trade and money that had forced his people to look beyond their own shores to the New World and want to carve out their own piece of it, draining their country's coffers and much of Scotland's own purse in pursuit of land that had brought them nothing but disease, death, and bankruptcy. Darien, in the end, was just the killing blow which finished the decades of slow suffocation that starvation, envy, royal apathy, and English betrayal had started. Scotland almost wished that this union had come about the way he had always feared it might, in blood and conquest, because at least he would have been able to fight against it, instead of having his fate decided by a parliament that had London's, and their own pockets', interests at heart.  
  
Scotland bit down on the inside of his cheeks until all he could taste was the coppery tang of his blood, clasped his hands together beneath the table so tightly that his knuckles began to ache, and managed to both hold his tongue and his fists.  
  
He had promised his queen – _their_ queen, in all ways now – that he would mind his temper, no matter the provocation, and he would not give England the satisfaction of seeing him go back on his word. He did not doubt that England would stir up some sort of need for reprisal against his people if it came to that, as well, because even when they were children, and Scotland and Wales were stronger than him by far and had no fear of being bested in a show of raw power, they still had a healthy respect for England's vengeance, which could be cunning and oftentimes cruel.

 

* * *

  
  
Scotland looked around the spartan room which was to be his bedchamber after Wales had escorted him to it – the bare walls, narrow bed, and weak fire spluttering in the small hearth – and tried not to dwell on how much it reminded him of a gaol cell.  
  
"Fuck," he said, ripping off his wig and throwing it to the floor just for the release afforded by the violent movement. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I can't do this. I am going to kill him. I don't know how, but I will. Tear him limb from limb, scatter the pieces all over this fucking island, and then piss on the –"  
  
"Easy." Wales' hand clasped the side of Scotland's neck, fingers squeezing just a little too hard against the jutting point of his collarbone. "It needn't come to that, really."  
  
Scotland wrenched himself away from Wales, pushing roughly at his brother's shoulder to increase the distance between them. "Really? Then what do you suggest I do? Because I can't roll over and let him walk all over me like you do, Wales. That'd kill _me_."  
  
Wales' lips flattened momentarily and he narrowed his eyes. "I do not _roll_ _over_ , Scotland. I simply ignore him most of the time; I find it helps immeasurably. He's not usually this bad, and when he is, I ignore him and then go and write poetry afterwards."  
  
Scotland snorted, and then sat down heavily on the end of the tiny bed and ran a hand over his closely-shorn, sweat-soaked hair. "Poetry? And how does that help?"  
  
"It's very scathing poetry," Wales said. "Absolutely vicious, sometimes. I find it cathartic."  
  
Scotland frowned as he considered that possibility, and then ventured, "I think I'd find punching him repeatedly in the face cathartic."  
  
Wales laughed; a short, harsh burst of sound that seemed as though it had been shocked out of him. "I think that may land you in a lot of trouble, brother."  
  
"Maybe I'll just be scathing, or perhaps even vicious, to his face instead of writing it down."  
  
"It might be a workable compromise." Wales agreed, nodding. He worried at his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment as though uncertain about something, before eventually saying, "I won't say that I'm glad that you're here, because I wish that it hadn't come to this for your sake, but it is good to see you, nevertheless. I've missed you."  
  
Scotland considered this, too, and eventually it made him laugh despite himself. A deep belly laugh that almost hurt with how strong and unexpected it was, and although he feared that it would soon turn hysterical if he couldn't soon fight it under control, it felt good, regardless.  
  
"I doubt you'll be saying that for long," he gasped, picking up his discarded wig and chucking it at Wales' head for the added joy of seeing his brother flap and squawk and hurl fierce Welsh insults his way. "And the next time you feel compelled to share something like that with me, why don't you write some poetry about it instead and spare me. Sentimental bastard."

**Author's Note:**

> \- The Acts of Union took effect on the 1st of May 1707, and joined the Kingdoms of England and Scotland into a single Kingdom of Great Britain. The two countries had shared a monarch since 1603; however, that was a situation of 'two crowns resting on the same head' and did not constitute a political union.
> 
> \- From 1695 onwards, there was a period of famine in Scotland following several successive crop failures during which time it is estimated that tens of thousands of Scots died.
> 
> \- The King (and later Queen (Anne)) of Scotland lived in England, and despite the shared crown, and put English needs ahead of Scottish, which lead to widespread disillusionment, and also dragged the Scots into English wars.
> 
> \- Given the success of the English colonies, the rewards of which the Scots were excluded from, the compromising of valuable trading privileges by England's wars with France and later the Dutch, the monopoly on trade in the East Indies and Africa by the East India Company and Royal Africa Company (both English), and the loss of Scotland's only colony, Nova Scotia, led to the plan to establish a colony in Central America in Darien (now part of Panama).
> 
> \- William Paterson, the originator of this plan, had never even been to Darien, but it was considered a prime location to expand trade. Half of the money to fund the colonisation was to come from London, and half from Scotland. However, as Darien was located in Spanish-claimed territory, and the King wanted to appease Spain, English investors soon withdrew their money. In the end, Scotland raised all the capital itself, with between a quarter and a half of all the liquid capital in the country being tied up in the venture.
> 
> \- Over a thousand people journeyed to Darien, with many dying en route, and many more succumbing to disease once there. Due to the huge amounts of Scotland's capital tied up in it, this failure pretty much bankrupted the country.
> 
> \- Adding to this were the effects if the 'Aliens Act' of 1704, which banned Scots from passing on any territory they owned in England on to their heirs, and also the import of Scottish goods, in an effort to force the Scottish to accept a union of English and Scottish Parliaments.


End file.
